


everything i love is out to sea (or, so said Mr. Melville)

by Dandybear



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Five Times They Quoted Moby Dick I Guess, Mentor/Protégé, Moby Dick References, Pseudo-Incest, Relationship Study, Watch me wince slightly then lean into fucked up relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandybear/pseuds/Dandybear
Summary: “Life on Earth originated here, then evolved the cells to contemplate journeying upward,” she raises a hand to point to the stars, “Out there. Something too far away to touch, and yet,” her hand splashes into the water.“And yet, that is where we live,” Philippa says.“Exactly.”“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts,” Philippa says.In a universe of variables, Melville becomes their constant.





	everything i love is out to sea (or, so said Mr. Melville)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from 'Don't Swallow the Cap' by The National, a song I consider to be one of Michael's themes, but I also quoted it in a Bioshock Infinite fic I wrote years back. And that series also deals with oceans, stars, and multiverses, so I guess I am just regurgitating the same ideas with the same influences. Jazz hands.
> 
> First time writing for Star Trek, and I gotta say it's intimidating to look at how much lore and continuity needed before just pressing start, so instead I wrote something more introspective and character driven because //I don't know the full history of the Bajoran-Cardassian conflict and at this point I'm afraid to ask.//
> 
> [sighs and crosses Mother/Daughter off my weird fic kink bingo card]

1.

Salt water licks at her limbs, neither pushing or pulling, just holding in place. The sound of waves lapping gently at the shore is distant, the water up around her ears muting it. It's near blackness, illuminated by the moon above and the distant porch light of the Zhang estate. Something warm and solid brushes Michael’s outstretched arm and she reacts by pushing, fear coating the inside of her chest for a moment.

Philippa’s laugh breaks the quiet of the night.

“I was worried you’d drifted off to sea,” she says.

“I’ve been careful to stay close to shore,” Michael says, feeling a little annoyed at the implication.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Philippa asks.

Michael keeps her neck craned, fixed on the sky above.

“An anachronistic saying, Captain,” Michael begins.

“It’s Philippa when we’re off-duty, Michael,” Philippa chides.

She is reaching for Michael, reaching out with word and hand, and Michael is unsure of why she is suddenly a being of prickles and spines. Why she feels compelled to shrug off Philippa’s attentions.

“Life on Earth originated here, then evolved the cells to contemplate journeying upward,” she raises a hand to point to the stars, “Out there. Something too far away to touch, and yet,” her hand splashes into the water.

“And yet, that is where we live,” Philippa says.

“Exactly.”

“ _ As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts, _ ” Philippa says.

Michael finally looks at her. Dark hair spills behind her, making her look like a siren with a heart shaped face and black eyes in this light. Michael colours when she realizes the other woman is nude, floating next to her. There’s an amused challenge in Philippa’s gaze, weighty and solid, like the leg that brushes Michael’s under the water.

“I should’ve known you’d bring Melville into this,” Michael says with a smile.

“I am nothing if not a creature of my habits,” Philippa says, “Now come inside, before you prune.”

Michael follows Philippa back to shore, contemplating, for a moment, the sticky, sandy release of rutting on the shores, but thinking better of it. Instead, she matches Philippa’s gait, her skin heating in the heady humidity of summer. Bugs whiz around the porch light, punctuating the night with their noisiness.

Michael sheds her own bathing suit and pins Philippa to the stairs.

“You taste like sea salt,” she says.

 

2.

“Michael, have you seen my contact lens solution?” Philippa asks from her spot.

There’s a gap between her teal T-shirt and her collar, the garment just a size too large and creating a tantalizing show of skin. The light plays off it like it plays off Philippa’s frown. She’s digging through her own bag of toiletries in search of the container.

“Here, Captain,” Michael offers the bottle from her own bag.

That gets a bemused, albeit grateful look.

“I packed it in my bag after you left it out this morning,” Michael explains.

“Thank you, Number One. I’d forget my own head if it weren’t attached,” Philippa jokes.

Michael can feel the members of the away team stretching their ears, listening to see who among them has won the pool about their commanding officers affair.

“I packed a spare one of those as well, just in case,” Michael jokes.

Philippa laughs. She winks as she gets up to use the restroom, stalking off on the balls of her feet to make minimal noise. Philippa has the silence of a large predator, moving with grace and efficiency. She knows how to mute her own breathing, and slow her heartbeat to almost silence. Michael’s witnessed her Captain sneak up on a group of Romulan scavengers and set herself on them like a lioness. She’s by the book, yes, but deadly, and it both fascinates and arouses Michael. And, Michael feels trusted by her Captain, because Philippa makes her steps and breathing louder when they’re alone, so Michael can track her movements.

Michael stretches and scrubs herself before bed before settling onto the mat and waiting for Philippa to return. She contemplates the ceiling while the meagre green foam does little to create a barrier between her body and the cold steel of the floor. But, Philippa enters her vision, then zigs, stepping over Michael with a smirk. So, she grabs Philippa’s ankle playfully, dropping her to the mat with a gentle whumph and a silent laugh. Philippa's half sprawled over Michael's prone form. Michael enjoys the added warmth and weight, aches to drag her closer. Stomach to stomach and cheek to cheek. She wonders if the impulse tempts her captain as well, because Philippa makes no move to retract her limbs. 

There's a cough and some low talking from the other end of the room, then the lights go dim. They shy away from each other slowly. 

“Goodnight Michael,” Philippa says. 

“Goodnight Philippa,” Michael replies. 

It is fifteen point seven minutes later when Philippa speaks again. 

“You are thinking loudly, Number One.”

“Apologies Captain, I am re-running the mission schematics for tomorrow.”

“Does the Vulcan Learning Centre teach the concept of 'studying too much’?”

“That is considered a blasphemous statement on Vulcan,” Michael jokes.

“Remember the eleventh and twelfth commandments, Number One,” Philippa chides.

Michael had not questioned the older woman’s devotion to Herman Melville, having been raised by the literary brain of Amanda Grayson. Michael understands that well-read people are more likely to be trustworthy and less likely to be wicked, or so said Mr. Snicket. Comfort often comes between the bindings of a book.

Why Moby Dick though?

“I am a ship’s Captain, and even though I may not be earning my keep by hunting whales, I am responsible for every life aboard this ship. My desires cannot come first. I must be… logical in my pursuits. Weigh every option in a situation to minimize damage,” Philippa told her once.

“Is that how you perceive the Prime Directive, Captain?”

“It is how I perceive my duty. To you, to the crew, and to Starfleet. And, that’s why I need you, Michael. You’re here to tell me which problems are whales and which are worth our blood, Number One,” Philippa said.

The responsibility was enough to make Michael’s heart pulse.

Philippa would read and recite passages to her, in the quiet of the late shift or at night in her quarters. The current quote is one often used to beat back Michael’s more neurotic habits like a stick.

_ “Think not, is my eleventh commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth.”  _

“I’ll do my best, Captain,” Michael says, relenting her busy mind to the shores of sleep.

“Good girl,” Philippa groans against her pillow.

Michael swallows her moan at that. Now uncomfortably aroused with no means of solving it appropriately. She swishes her legs against her sleeping bag and returns to staring at the ceiling, thinking of sea and stars, and Philippa’s skin beneath her lips.

 

3.

“Captain, I do believe we are lost,” Michael announces.

“We are not lost, we are on an adventure,” Philippa says, setting her hands on her hips.

Michael sighs, checking the map once again. Be it cavernous depths, crystal jungles, or ringed plateaus, it is always Philippa’s compulsion to find the most difficult way out of the situation. And, Michael is always inclined to follow. Partly out of duty, out of her devotion to her beloved, and her own sense of wonder for the massive universe which she finds herself blessed to explore.

“Do you hear that?” Philippa squeezes Michael’s hand, a gesture appropriate for the mission at hand. Unlike the kiss they shared when they arrived.

Michael pauses, focusing her thoughts, “A breeze moving through the caverns.”

“It’s music, Michael. The previous occupants must have dug the tunnels just so, to build this… this orchestra.”

“A lot of conjecture, Captain, we have evidence the inhabitants created cave art, but do not know if they had the tools to dig such structures themselves.”

Michael can feel Philippa rolling her eyes.

“It is, fascinating though, this location is not marked on any records,” she adds.

“ _ It is not down on any map; true places never are, _ ” Philippa says.

Michael makes a mental note to update the coordinates, but for now, she seizes the moment.

“Would you care to dance, Captain?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Number One.”

 

4.

Exhaustion bogs her being down, gravity threatening to stop her with every step. It’s the kind of tired that sticks to the bones, that melts all will to move forward.

She’s been moving forward for so long, feeling dragged along by cosmic entropy, yet also the master of her own fate.

Her mother told her that time is savage, and that it always wins. She may be correct. There’s a speed with which Michael’s life has been buffeted by time, hauled out to sea with no raft in sight. Left existing in one space in time. Watching the Bat’Leth swing downward, taking Philippa Georgiou with it and leaving her in a pile on the floor. 

Time has passed since then. Unprecedented time. Time she’s held in her hand, wielded, and felt pawing at her from all sides.

Michael is endless, a red-winged creature unbound by time and space.

And yet, Michael Burnham is still on the floor of T’Kuvma’s ship screaming in agony.

Saru got to sing for the Captain’s funeral. Told the story of how she found his message in a bottle and offered him a place on her ship. Among the stars.

Michael did not get to speak at Philippa’s funeral. She did not get to kiss her fingers goodbye, like she had the morning of Philippa’s death. She’s her Captain’s killer, not her widow.

“How many hours have you been up?” Stamets is the one who finds her digging through messes of wires on the lower decks.

“We have many injured. It is only logical for those of us with the physical and mental fortitude to stay awake to prioritize ship repairs.”

“Michael, you died less than a week ago. You’re delirious. Go sleep.”

Michael chuckles, muttering to herself, “Death would’ve been easier.”

The white of Stamets eyebrows shoot up, “Okay, well I’ll tell Hugh to put you down for a mental health assessment as well as a physical.”

“I am fine, Stamets,” to emphasize this, she storms off towards the holodeck to check on the status of her repairs.

She is found, seated on a catwalk, by Philippa. Not  _ that Philippa,  _ but the other Philippa. The one with starry Terran eyes that mirror Michael’s devotion.

“Stamets told me to find you,” she says.

“Meddling of him,” Michael mumbles.

“You do not need to torture yourself like this,” Philippa grabs Michael by the elbow to haul her up.

“Would you do it for me?” Michael says, too exhausted to filter her thoughts from her brain to her mouth.

Philippa’s grip tightens at that, and they rock as they walk, as if the floor was wood on stormy seas.

“Is that what you want from me?” Philippa’s voice is quiet.

“I want to be forgiven,” Michael says, “I just want them to see that I didn’t kill her. I loved her, I love her so much.”

The world is quiet now, and taking in her surroundings, Michael sees the comfort of the guest quarters, Philippa’s room. Not the Philippa’s room she’s used to. The big bed where they’d stretch languidly against each other, eyes still skyward. Their own private ocean, with seafoam sheets, and the blue-green duvet. 

“Michael?”

“I am here, but I am also there, for all of space and time, I live in the seconds when she still drew breath,” her back hits the softness of the mattress, and she’s aware that she’s being stripped of her boots and socks. For her part, Philippa doesn’t wince. She has the resolute jaw and fixation of a parent. There’s comfort in that, Michael doubts she could do anything physically to disgust the Terran.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Michael dissolves into a sob.

Deadly, delicate hands move to cradle her face, “Oh, My Michael,” Philippa sighs.

“Not yours, but yours,” Michael says.

Philippa nods.

“Did you get to say goodbye to her?” Michael asks.

“No.”

Michael snorts, wiping at her eyes, “What a pair we make.”

“What would you have said?” Philippa asks, sitting and pulling Michael’s head into her lap. A familiar gesture that brings both of them the kind of comfort that soothes all other ills. Michael grabs the hand stroking her hair and kisses the fingertips without a second thought.

“She loved Herman Melville, said it helped to remind her to never fall victim to her own hubris. Never to chase her own White Whale,” Michael hesitates, “Of course, fate would make me the Ahab in our story.”

“Should I ever see Ash Tyler again, I will inform him of his new nickname,” Philippa says.

It gets a slightly hysterical laugh out of Michael. Philippa pauses in her affection and stands.

“Don’t leave!” Michael begs.

“I am undressing for bed,” Philippa says, voice soothing, “I won’t leave you.”

“Right. Right,” Michael slaps her own cheeks, getting up onto her knees to shed her belt and trousers, “ _ Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian. _ ”

Philippa laughs, taken off guard, “Strong words.”

“Melville’s, not mine,” Michael’s added her uniform jacket to the pile beside the bed and slid under the covers.

The lights go dim and she is awash in a sea of soft cotton. Comfort. Forgotten in her hours of her penance.

“You must take better care of yourself, Michael, you’re all I have left,” Philippa says.

Michael reaches for her through the sheets, until her hand wraps around a sturdy arm. She can’t promise that. She can’t even promise herself to move forward. But, Philippa pulls her closer, until they are one shape under the covers, Michael’s head resting on the spot where T’Kuvma’s blade split Philippa’s chest. There’s a steady beating heart there, pulsing in symphony with her own.

“I’m sorry she didn’t love you enough,” Michael says.

Philippa stiffens, filing that away to deal with later, because Michael in her arms is more precious than her pride.

“Go to sleep, Michael.”

Michael does.

Philippa’s breathing sounds the same across universes. Across space and time. It’s more comforting than anything else so far.

 

5.

_ “Squeeze! Squeeze! Squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me, and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-labourers' hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally, as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill humour or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.”  _

“This book is filthy,” Philippa says, amused and shifting to adjust her place in bed.

Michael raises her head, mildly annoyed to have her shoulder rest removed.

“It is a historical account of whaling practices,” Michael says.

“It is deeply homoerotic,” Philippa says.

She’s got her chin perched on her hand and is running fingers along Michael’s arm. Michael knows the move from both Philippas and responds accordingly, stuffing a bookmark between the pages and setting the book aside.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Philippa huffs.

“It’s getting late, we’ll have to resume tomorrow,” Michael says. 

“You do that a lot, you know,” Philippa sits up to take her protective contact lenses out.

Michael sets the book down and rolls onto her side, exhaling and for a moment, feeling like everything’s normal again. She’s Michael Burnham in Philippa Georgiou’s bed and they’re settling in for the night.

“What do I do?” Michael asks, ready for the debate.

“Deprive yourself of satisfaction, often at the last minute. You need to be more selfish.”

Michael closes her eyes as a finger drags itself from her temple down to her mouth, then nips at the probing thumb that settles against her lip. She sucks it into her mouth, accepting the invitation.

“Maybe I just prefer to delay my gratification,” Michael surges up to kiss her.

“Well, better late than never,” Philippa nips Michael’s lip.

Michael presses Philippa into the mattress, eager to help slim legs find their way around her waist. It’s almost the same. It’s like purple and mauve--except mauve is a cannibal, war criminal, imperialist. Except, mauve’s always seen her as a daughter. Except, mauve  _ fucks her better.  _ Purple, the late Philippa always held herself back, some sense of shame or propriety always made their lovemaking just a little removed. A little restrained. It was lovely. Philippa was always lovely to Michael, showering her in kisses and warmth. But, Mauve, the Philippa from the Mirror, mauls Michael with bites and scratches. She looks at her with molten adoration and treats her like she is something precious. Something to be lost. Something once lost.

They survive and cling to each other, because they are the mismatched chess pieces that loved each other more.

“Do I taste like her?” Philippa asks.

“Almost,” Michael says.

The world out there is cold and indifferent, but Philippa’s bed is warm. She is Ishmael letting Queequeg under the covers. ( _ To enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast.  _ So said Mr. Melville.)

And they drift together under the stars, or above the stars, space being more of an ocean of nothing, with stars, dust, and nebulae bobbing like driftwood than something that has a beginning and an end.

Michael pants, sweat cooling her flushed skin, covers kicked off in their frantic fucking. Philippa is glorious, reclining like the lioness she is, black hair disappearing against the pillow like she is Eris emerging from the sea.

Michael wonders, seriously, idly, if her love has the transmutative properties to turn one Philippa into the other, or if that’s even what she wants anymore. If offered the chance to trade their places, would she take it? Would Purple accept her as she is now? Would she be more or less worthy? After all she’s done, how would her Philippa see her?

What would she say right now?

Likely, her usual “ _ Commandments Eleven and Twelve, Number One.” _

Philippa glares at her from beneath her lashes, then hauls her against her own nude body, kissing her forehead.

“Your Vulcan father taught you to think too much,” she complains.

Michael laughs.

_ Almost _ will do.

**Author's Note:**

> There's like six different drafts of this, and what I did end up going with is a bit more experimental. That and it being a new fandom. I'm curious to hear what y'all think. Thoughts. Opinions. Scorpions. Please let me know!


End file.
